


Lucky Charm

by Galadriel



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: Deception, Family, Frottage, Gun Violence, Loyalty, M/M, Organized Crime, Prison, Revenge, Spooning, Wakes & Funerals, Yuletide 2018, Yuletide Assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 20:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17029533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: It happens quick.Pop, pop, pop, a short burst like a chain of firecrackers carelessly dropped on the ground.





	Lucky Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elfgrandfather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Elfgrandfather! I loved your prompts, and they sparked a bunch of ideas for me, which led me to taking a little bit from here and there in putting this together. I hope that's ok, and I hope you enjoy the fic!

It happens quick. _Pop, pop, pop_ , a short burst like a chain of firecrackers carelessly dropped on the ground. Nikolai turns as Kirill falls, one _pop_ too late to shield him. Nikolai crouches, gun in one hand, the other on Kirill's chest, feeling it rise and fall erratically as blood bubbles from within.

Nikolai can feel the rumble of the sedan's engine in _his_ chest as it speeds up, fleeing the scene with a few new holes in the door panel. Nikolai doesn't remember squeezing the trigger, but he knows deep in his bones that he has, his own short burst of _pops_ , years of training kicking in without a thought. 

His only thought is for his prince, lying in the gravel beside him, a slowly spreading stain painting the rocks and dirt under his back. Kirill's breath rattles, caught in his throat, making his whole body shudder. "Kolya." The word is ragged, bogged down in blood and gravel and bullets. "... _Kolya_."

The shouting of Kirill's men fades away as Kirill's pleas fill up Nikolai's ears. He knows it is indiscreet, but he takes Kirill's hand in his own all the same, warming Kirill's cool fingers against his palm. 

He doesn't let go until their sedan arrives, the crunching of gravel under rubber the only sound that breaks through Kirill's gasps. 

It is a sound that will haunt him the rest of his days.

***

Kirill had insisted, against Nikolai's protests. Protests that had grown increasingly loud, increasingly indiscreet, with each passing week. When the kitchen workers began to eye the two of them, locked as they were in a hissing, growling argument, Nikolai had grabbed Kirill's arm and pulled him into the pantry. 

"You cannot. It is not safe."

"I will do as I must. Papa must see me. He lives for my visits."

Even in the dim light that leaked under the door and around the frame, Nikolai could see the stubborn set of Kirill's jaw. His fingers itched to trace it even as he pressed his palms to his trousers. "We have been lucky so far. But luck runs out, da?"

Kirill snorted. He leaned in, resting his forehead against Nikolai's as his hands cradled Nikolai's face. "You are my lucky charm. So long as you are beside me, my luck will not end."

His lips were rough against Nikolai's, his breath spiced with tobacco and some flavour of booze. He tasted of heat and need and lust and stubbornness, and the mixture pried Nikolai's hands from his sides until he was gripping Kirill's hips, pulling him closer, grinding their groins together.

"Kolya," Kirill murmured, " _Kolya_."

...And so the new king must visit the old king -- deposed from his seat, frail and angry behind cold steel bars -- lest he be seen as anything less than a perfect son. Lest he be seen as anything less than the rightful heir to his father's throne.

And if the son's scrupulously scheduled weekly visits ended the same way, the old man yelling invectives as the guards dragged him away, Kirill shouting back, unable to master his emotions, well, no one needed to know that. It was enough that appearances were maintained. It was enough that Kirill's men saw nothing but the loving, dutiful son. The son who had his father's support. Who had his word. Who had his power. 

And anyway, it wasn't so terrible, lingering in the prison foyer, waiting to see if this week would be a shouting match, or if Semyon would turn Kirill away without a word. Either way, it did not matter. Either way, Nikolai would still find himself standing with Kirill in the guest reception building, Nikolai's hand pressed against Kirill's chest, over his heart, marking the thunderous beating of a scared child desperate to win his father's affection. Silence or shouting, it all ended the same. 

And they would wait, until Kirill's heart slowed to match Nikolai's. And only then, only then would they exit the prison and rejoin the rest of the men at their car. Only then, when Kirill had found his head; only then, when Nikolai had taken command of his heart.

***

The funeral is well-attended, all things considered. There has been some rumbling amongst the family about the divergence from tradition, but Nikolai has been quick to remind them that this has been a bad death. Bad enough that they must make adjustments for a closed casket. Bad enough that even the most skilled of London's morticians cannot make him presentable.

Perhaps if he was at home, back in the mother country. Perhaps then, a proper Russian mortician would be able to make such a bad death look like a good one. But they are not, and Kirill will have to take that last journey home alone, with no one to gaze upon his face.

And anyway, Kirill would want his nieces and nephews at his farewell, Nikolai reminds them. He would want them there, but he would not want them to see him like that, gone before his time, disfigured beyond repair. 

It takes not a little negotiation, but Kirill's sisters eventually agree. They go ahead with the three days of mourning, but Kirill is not present. Instead, they place a photo of him in the krásnyj úgol, his face inadvertently turned away from the candles, the crosses, and the saints. Nikolai thinks the placement would be fitting if it weren't for the fact that the photo Kirill's sisters have chosen looks nothing like the man. In it, he is a good ten years younger, clear-eyed and well-suited, a caricature of the tortured son Nikolai knows has always lurked underneath. 

The three days pass slowly, a revolving door of faintly familiar faces offering platitudes to the family. There is food, and prayers, and promises of support in the coming days ahead.

Nikolai is on the receiving end of none; even as the rumours of he and Kirill swirl, it would not be proper to acknowledge such a connection between them. He is Kirill's right-hand-man, nothing more.

He is torn between wishing for a few platitudes of his own, or wishing for silence.

Until the three days are done, he receives neither. And the silence is only a prelude to what comes next.

The funeral is well-attended by Semyon's associates. They fill the church to bursting, sombre punctuations to the riot of candles and light that turn them into shadows, casting their hunched and dark silhouettes against every flat surface, every pew and wall. They circle the closed casket like vultures, fingertips dragging over the wood, drumming, as if they wish to wake the prince from his slumber. Nikolai knows that if Kirill was to throw open the casket lid, sit up and return to life, more than one of these men would make certain to stop his breath in his throat.

They are here to make sure Kirill is dead. They are here to measure the space he has left empty, to see if the family is weak enough to buckle under outside pressure.

They are here, yet Semyon is not.

Rumour has it that Semyon tore up his cell in his sorrow; that he has been placed in solitary and his privileges revoked. That he is inconsolable at the warden's refusal to go to his only son's funeral. That he is inconsolable in his grief.

Nikolai is certain that Semyon's rage is not from grief; that he wishes to see that his son is truly dead, to be certain with his own eyes that the millstone around his neck has been released.

***

The night before Kirill's last prison visit, he visited Nikolai in his cell. 

"Why you insist on staying in this... this simple, small room, I do not understand." Kirill's voice was soft in the darkness, accompanied by first one, then another thud of shoes hitting the carpet, the rustle of a shirt pulled over a head. "You could have any other room in my home; all you need do is ask."

Nikolai's eyes were open, but he did not reply. Instead, he waited for the darkness to bend to his will, to soften until he could see Kirill's outline moving around the room. Kirill's movements were practised -- he was neither drunk nor nervous -- and they made Nikolai smile. Only a few short months since the prince had become the king, and Kirill had already made some good, smart adjustments. They were not all that Kirill would need to become the leader his father was, but they were a start. 

A start that Nikolai continued to encourage in his own quiet way. 

Granted, slipping into Nikolai's room four nights out of seven was perhaps not the wisest of choices, but Nikolai had long since stopped discouraging Kirill from that particular predilection. He had always known it was good to have Kirill wrapped around his little finger, but... where once that was all it was, that was all no longer. 

Now, Nikolai enjoyed Kirill's eagerness. He enjoyed the faint creaking of the door and the sliver of light, quickly extinguished, as Kirill slipped into his room. He enjoyed Kirill's hushed tones and slow learning of which boards squeaked and which did not, until he could cross the room undisturbed, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. He enjoyed the slight hesitation, Kirill's sharp intake of breath as he waited upon Nikolai's leisure, the tiniest of moments balanced between acceptance or rejection, between body or blade.

It was a simple thing to flick back the covers and allow Kirill to slide in close, but Nikolai knew it meant everything. 

And it was no hardship to experience the warmth of Kirill's skin in the middle of the night, the way he arched and shifted until he fit himself against Nikolai's body. The way he asked without asking, so Nikolai could take without a word.

And it was certainly no hardship to card his fingers through Kirill's hair, to grip and pull, to tip Kirill's head back and expose Kirill's neck and breathe in the moans he coaxed, without fail, from Kirill's throat. 

"Kolya."

It had long since ceased to be a hardship. Now, it was nothing but pleasure. Pleasure that was sharpened all the more by Kirill's voice as Nikolai entered him, slick hard thrusts as they lay spooned, side-by-side, in the darkness that revealed all they concealed by day. 

" _Kolya_."

***

It is impossible for him to stay in London, to continue to serve the family, after what he has done. 

But it needed doing all the same. A moonless night, a darkened alcove, and his own little string of _pop, pop, pops_. 

He has done his final duty. To the family, and to Kirill. 

He has done what the police cannot, what they will not. He does not consider it revenge; he has merely disposed of the men who were in the sedan that day, sending a message to all that the family, _his_ family, remain strong even in the absence of a king. 

He does not spare a thought for his bosses at the FSB. He has done all he can for them, and his final choices are made to honour his heart, not his head.

Still, there is no harm in relaxing into his seat, enjoying the ever-present rumble of the engines, and knowing that London is rapidly shrinking in his rear-view as the plane wings him away.

...Nearly twelve hours later, his feet meet pavement once again. Armed with nothing more than a carry-on, he steps out into the sun and is immediately hit with a wall of heat. He can feel the wool of his suit absorbing it, becoming weighed down by an almost impossibly hot dampness that makes him regret every fibre draped over his form. Still, the car and driver are there as expected, patient and practically outfitted in something light and linen. He allows himself to be ushered into the interior, suddenly grateful for the invention of air conditioning. 

He readjusts his sunglasses even as he closes his eyes. The light is dazzling here; so different from the drizzling grey of London, the stark, biting cold of the motherland. Once the driver slides back behind the wheel, Nikolai wets his lips and murmurs, "Zona Sul." They are the only directions he offers the driver, the only words he bothers with. He assumes the man already knows his destination, as it hadn't been prudent for Nikolai to carry that information with him or really know it at all.

What is it about air travel that always leaves one so tired? Even after sleeping for hours on the plane, Nikolai surprises himself by dozing during the drive. If he were one to admit it, he might acknowledge a little embarrassment, as he isn't sure how much time has passed since he got into the car. 

He blinks behind his lenses, clearing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. Out the side window is a charming lemon yellow condominium, trimmed in white, behind a low wrought iron gate. The driver springs out onto the sidewalk, clearly his every intention to open Nikolai's door.

Nikolai waves him off, taking a moment to steel himself, and another moment to lean over to grab the straps of his carry-on. It is now or never. He grabs the door handle, flexes his fingers. Such a simple gesture, yet it means so much more. 

The steps up to the stuccoed front façade seem to take a lifetime to cover. He hesitates, unwilling for a long moment to press the pad of his finger to the bell, wondering if it is too late to reject all the decisions that have brought him to this moment, to this place, to this end. 

His mouth is dry. His suit, damp and clinging. It would require nothing to withdraw his finger, to turn on his heel and get back in the car.

"Kolya!" The voice comes from within the front hallway, the second syllable ever so slightly louder as the door is flung open. Nikolai surprises himself, feeling his heart skips a beat. The corners of his mouth twitch in response as familiar blue eyes lock with his own. 

"You came! I half-expected you to not. Come in, come in!" All Nikolai's objections are washed away in an arm slung around his shoulders, and an irresistible pull over the threshold. The inside hallway is just as charming as the outside: cool yellows and whites, clean and bright and entirely new. His carry-on is pried out of his hands, his suit jacket slid off his shoulders. Another few steps and he finds himself in the front room, fluttering lacy white curtains shielding them both from prying eyes.

He wets his lips. "Kirill," he murmurs. He is here, whole and undamaged, just as they planned. Plans that were murmured in the depths of the night, their outlines faint shapes given focus in shared darkness. " _Kirill_ ," he tries again, reaching out to trace his prince's jaw.

Kirill grins back at him, all excitement and pleasure. "It went just as you said. We did it, did we not? And I am quite the actor." He thumps his fist against his chest. "Did you not like it? The way I thrashed and groaned? It was better than a swan song, if I say so myself." Kirill urges Nikolai to a small chaise lounge, manhandles him until they are both sitting down. 

"What was it like, hmm? You know what I mean. The, ah, the funeral. Did all my friends attend? Did my sisters cry? I would like for them to know I am fine, but nyet, nyet, I know what you say. But maybe it is something we can discuss, da?"

Kirill's words, like a torrent, flow over Nikolai. He raises a hand in weak protest, but it is all he can do to simply listen, to try and follow. They are the same questions, in new form, that they had already talked out in Nikolai's tiny London bedroom. They hint at the same desires, but there's an excitement beneath them, something Nikolai can build on, to keep them safely beyond Britain's extradition arm.

"They are safe," Nikolai manages, carefully swallowing an added _for now_. "Your brother-in-law, Artem, is capable, and they are all in his hands." 

Kirill nods, enthusiastically. "And the men you hired? You have paid them off?"

Nikolai looks down at his hands. "Da. They have been rewarded for their troubles." He wonders if Kirill can sense it, Nikolai's small deception. Yet it is born out of loyalty, and the desire to keep what he values safe, and it is a far lesser crime to etch itself into his skin than his stars stand for.

But instead Kirill is still talking, peppering Nikolai with questions with no breathing space for answers, imparting details of all the things he has done since he has been dead. He has already made a list of all the nightclubs and sights that they must take in, of people he has met who must also meet his "brother" who has just moved in. 

Nikolai shakes his head. It is all too much to take in. But there is peace in letting it slide over him, peace in knowing that for the moment, the family and that life have been left far behind. That Kirill is safe, and Nikolai has him, and there is no kingship, no competing families, no trafficking, and no _more_. He knows there are things that he still should tell Kirill: his last action as an officer of the FSB, the raid that will happen at the Trans-Siberian in two days time. But those are decisions that seem rather far away from the two of them, left behind for a new life in Rio, a new life free of expectations, cruelty, and control.

Nikolai smiles; this is not the life he expected, and certainly not one he is sure he knows how to live. But for now, they are safe, and for now, they are unknown, and that is perhaps all either of them can wish for in such uncertain days.

"Kolya?" Kirill's voice is full of mirth, his fingers light as they stroke Nikolai's hair. 

"Hmm?" He isn't sure when it happened, but Nikolai's head rests comfortably against the back of the chaise lounge, eyes closed, the familiar tension all but gone from his jaw.

Kirill's lips are warm and soft as they brush across Nikolai's cheek. "I'm glad you are here," he murmurs. "I am glad you came after me, my Kolya. You are my lucky charm."


End file.
